


Future Echoes

by LilyLawiet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cruciatus, Dream Torture, Flowers, Language of Flowers, M/M, Marigolds, Photographic Memory, Tom Riddle's Diary, Tom disapproves of Dumbledore's fashion sense, Tom has visions, Tom's View on Things, Visions, Wool's Orphanage (Harry Potter), daffodils, daisies, diary entries, eidetic memory, lavender - Freeform, lilies, poppies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-11-23 12:52:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18152111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyLawiet/pseuds/LilyLawiet
Summary: "What does this one mean?" He asked inspecting it, not noticing as the kitchen grew foggy, spinning slowly as Harry's form disappeared into the mist."Leave me."For as long as he can remember Tom has had visions while he sleeps, and he's certain they're not just dreams, as he only sees one thing - a green-eyed, black-haired child. Struggling with repressed emotions, Tom searches for a reason why he's haunted by the boy named Harry.





	1. The Kitchen - White Calla Lilies and Butterfly Weed

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> I'm trying something different from a oneshot this time, and am going to attempt a longer more plotty story!  
> Sorry in advance if it's no good :)
> 
> Disclaimer: None of these characters belongs to me, I just like to read and write about them!

For as long as he could remember, Tom would have strange dreams, dreams being a loose term as they were events that occurred and were witnessed after he fell asleep. They began suddenly, shortly after the incident with Billy's pe(s)t rabbit, and Tom remembered being quite troubled by the experience, he'd written them off as dreams at first - he was a seven-year-old boy, and it was expected that he would dream, but there was something about them that was just odd. For one, the subject of his visions - Tom loathed using the term 'dreams' for something he considered to be so serious, he deemed it to be silly and puerile- never changed. It took many restless nights to discover it, but he had learnt that every vision he received while he slept all had connections to a child Tom had never had the yet unknown pleasure of knowing. This was one of the reasons he believed that the images he saw at night were not altogether conventional.

Tom considered himself a logical child, he had trouble understanding the whims and actions of the emotion led children he resided with; he had tried imitating them once when he was very young, while the child still had imaginings of life outside Wool's Orphanage, secure in a household and loved. But Tom was an intelligent creature, unusually so, and he watched as prospective families came to him, only to be drawn to the laughing, ebullient urchins; not even his cherubic face had won in his favour against his brooding, calculating nature.

And so, Tom had smiled. He had laughed and skipped and beamed at those who had come to choose a child suitable for their home, but even then they were wary - they watched him from the corner of their eyes, they whispered and pointed at him, shuffling away when he turned to look. It had never bothered Tom before, he knew that it was human nature to fear what they couldn't understand, and there was just something about him that didn't quite fit. He was different, he was clever, and that to them was something to fear. But when he had tried, when he repressed his racing mind and tried so hard to be like them, it had hurt. He'd to be loveable in the eyes of caregivers, in the eyes of those who could give him a better life - he invested in the inane activities the other children did like running and yelling for no reason, and yet they still found him lacking. They still scorned him.

But Tom remembered every face. The genius child remembered every face he'd seen, from those hurrying past the rusted gates not sparing those within them a single thought, to those who visited and left with a wailing child in tow. Tom had never met this child before, and he doubted his mind had the capacity for the imagination needed to invent it. Strange things happened to him, around him, and he sometimes caused them to happen. There was no doubt in his cynical mind that these visions were somehow connected to his otherness.

Tom was broken from his musing by suddenly being plunged into darkness. Lights out, it was no wonder Tom hadn't noticed, no one entered his room when they could help it. As soon as his strangeness had made itself known he'd been removed from the room he'd shared with that dreadful girl who stole his socks and to one of his own, with the light switch just beside the door. No one would need to enter the room, they just needed to slip an arm in and reach it. Tom didn't mind. He found the 'lights out' conversation tedious and unnecessary - the usual questions beggarly orphans were frequent to ask - Will someone come tomorrow? Will I be adopted tomorrow? ... Will someone take me away from here tomorrow?

Tom sighed, a sigh too weary for someone so young, and got into bed. It was November and bitterly cold, all inhabitants of Wool's had taken to wearing that day's clothing to bed as an added protection from the icy hands of winter that gripped them. Shuddering in the darkness, the small boy curled under his tattered blanket. Slowly his shuddering gave way to his slumber.

\------------

Tom found himself in a kitchen. Sunlight trickled through the fragile lace curtains at the window, and everywhere around him was luminous. The white surfaces gleamed, a tall white box hummed next to him, a table in front of him with dainty lace doilies and a - rather ugly- pink vase sat in the centre holding a small bouquet of flowers.

A group of three sat around the kitchen table - a man, his wife and their son - the perfect family, and yet not. Tom's face was screwed in disgust at the man - the horrendously overweight man- taking in his scowling purple face, mouth obscured by a bushy black moustache that Tom found rather ludicrous. He looked more like a drowned corpse than a living being in his opinion, and he wondered how the man had been considered appealing enough to become married in the first place. He then shifted his attention to the woman, who was such a stark contrast to her husband that it made their match even more unlikely in Tom's eyes. She was so small compared to the beast she married and seemingly carried not only her own neck but his as well, lest it evaporate under his excess of flesh. She wasn't an attractive woman, in all regards she was quite forgettable - tall, thin and pale. Blonde and blue-eyed, with an alarming resemblance to a horse as she plucked a flower from the hideous pink vase and began to eat it.

Tom was astounded, this wasn't his usual type of vision - he'd realised that after his arrival in the now familiar kitchen, but it was strangely different. Ethereal, or as much as a kitchen could be. But this was bizarre, and it certainly had not come from his sleeping subconscious mind! They were all eating them, even the boy. With his mother's blonde hair, and father's everything else, including his overly large appearance, the boy was more like a pig than a human being.

"A pig, a horse, and what would you be?" Tom sniggered while considering the man. "A walrus suits you well enough."

"You're unlucky the bulldog is absent." There was a small voice from where the kitchen doorway would have been if the surrounding area wasn't faded to nothingness - it was as if nothing but the room existed, and time couldn't touch them. Tom let out a shriek and spun to the direction of the unexpected sound. He saw a tiny, bony child, with bright green eyes squinting from wire-framed glasses and scruffy black hair that stuck up at all angles.

"Don't sneak! " Tom grouched. He knew this child, it was the one he watched every night in his sleep, how he'd ended up here with Tom was beyond him, but Tom knew this was an opportunity he would not waste. "What is your name? Why are you here? " Tom's eyes took in every detail of the child as they shifted, a small hand coming to tug at the neck of a strange and overly large shirt.

"I've been here the whole time, you just didn't see me." Tom rather doubted that, but he wasn't about to cause an argument.  
"Who are they? And why on God's Earth are they eating those flowers?" Tom gestured at the table, exasperation colouring his tone, and the child before him grimaced.  
"Those are my relatives... and the flowers they're eating are calla lilies, my aunt hates them." Tom shook his head, that really didn't explain much about this situation. If these were the child's relatives, they obviously weren't close ones, the only resemblance any of them had was the woman's skin tone and slender body.

"You should leave now, no matter how strange it gets, this is never a good place to be," the child said stretching a hand in which another flower was clasped. It was different from the ones the relatives were feasting on, instead of large, cup-like petals, these were small, orange and pointed. There were many flowers on one stalk, instead of a singular white flower, he thought this one to be much prettier.

"What kind of flower is that?" Tom supposed he was being swept up by the vision, as he didn't care about flowers or plants in general, he hated mud and all things to do with it, but he found himself asking anyway. The child gave a small smile, before gesturing for Tom to take it.

"This is a Butterfly Weed., and I'm a Harry" Tom slowly reached out, encouraged by the child's gesture of good will, and took the plant from a pair of delicate hands.  
"What does this one mean?" He asked inspecting it, not noticing as the kitchen grew foggy, spinning slowly as Harry's form disappeared into the fog  
" _Leave me_."


	2. A Vision - Dead Daisies and Marigolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has a vision with unexpected side-effects that leaves him unsettled, and another look into Tom's history at Wool's Orphanage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> Another chapter as promised!  
> Fingers crossed it's okay

Tom shuddered awake, his dark eyes wide as the air filled his lungs. It'd been at least a month since his last vision, and Tom was terrified that they'd gone. His birthday had come and gone since he'd last seen the child and the longer it was without one, the more Tom began to fear. The visions were precious, the visions were his, and his alone. It meant he was different from the others. He was special.

It wasn't long after his third birthday that the incidents began. The incidents happened upon his wishes but he never knew it really was his own power that worked for him when he needed it. The dark-eyed child had left by himself by the staff meant to care for the children, more often than not. Tom had never understood even then why the adults would avoid him, but when old enough to be released from babies and toddler carers, he was. At three, the brown-haired boy has sat alone with a book in the nursery room, or he was hiding behind doors and watched from the doorway at the interactions the orphanage's staff bad between themselves, and the other children. He slowly began to put sounds to the letters on the pages.

His quick progress, however, only served to alienate those around him further to the point where there were whispers from the more religious of staff of him being possessed by a demonic being. The children had overheard these indiscreet talks and decided that Tom himself was a demonic being. His chances of adoption were further damaged and Tom became the pariah of Wool's Orphanage. Privately, he believed that the staff just couldn't handle anyone with the intelligence higher than a dung beetle, and anyone fitting that description obviously had to be some kind of evil-doing. How he hated them, but in the end, it had only worked to his advantage.

The more the staff separated him from the other sticky-fingered, wailing creatures, the more Tom could learn, and the things he had learnt! He learnt that Mrs Cole kept a small bottle of alcohol - sherry as it turns out- in her bottom desk drawer and a second in the middle cabinet space for her files, the former was usually empty after lunchtime and the second was used only in emergencies - more than once he'd switched the bottles, before refilling the empty one with the cooking sherry stashed away at the back of the kitchen cupboards. The more inebriated the usually sharp Matron was, the less she paid attention to Tom's activities.

He'd learned that Billy Stubbs had been gifted a rabbit on his birthday, a tiny, smelly thing but to Billy, it was the greatest thing in the world - Tom often found himself wondering how the poor creature wasn't killed, being the pet of such a brute. He'd learned that he could speak with snakes! He'd stumbled upon this talent by accident while hiding from some of the older inhabitants of the Orphanage, those like he who no longer had a chance at family life. He'd been hiding in a tall patch of grass at the edge of Wool's grounds when he'd felt a sharp pain in his ankle, and heard loud complaints from unusual voice - the words were slow and dragged on the letter 'S' like a hiss. Looking down, he found a small snake, fangs bared and snarling at him for being a "clumsy beast" and "destroying it'sss nest", to say Tom was surprised was an understatement. Especially so, when he'd hissed back in anger.

Tom was very lucky she wasn't venomous, and it didn't take long for him and the little serpent to become friends, he adored her even if she didn't make the best conversationalist. It turned out that all the tiny serpent would talk about was food, nests and mating - the latter Tom did not need to know about but got told anyway, but surprisingly he didn't mind. The serpent was his first friend, the first thing he had that was completely his own. But Tom was careless, he was seen by the rabbit boy, who'd shoved the brown-haired boy to the ground, cruelly snatched the poor serpent and pinned it down. Tom bore witness, sprawled across the gravel, knees and palms split open, to Billy Stubbs smash his helpless friend over the head with a large stone.

It was long after dark and raining heavily when Tom had found it within himself to move. He picked up her broken body and dug a grave at the edge of the grounds, in the place where he'd destroyed her nest. Something within Tom had broken that day, and nothing could ever fix it. The dark-eyed boy had sat in his room for hours, his thoughts surrounding that smelly little thing that Billy cherished so much. He wished it dead, he wished it dead and for Billy to mourn as he mourned for his tiny friend. The next morning began with a search lasting for hours for rabbit boy's lost pet - eventually, it had been found by that overly cheerful gossip, Martha, hanging from the rafters with no-one having any clue how it's gotten there. Despite Tom being too short to reach, all eyes still turned to him as Billy cradled its little furry, white body, wailing. It had been called Snowdrop. His friend never had a name.

No-one spoke about the incident in the cave, at least no-one involved, and Tom thought the whole thing was best left forgotten. It had served its purpose, the sock stealer girl and her beloved devotee no longer bothered him, mocked him, or even looked at him. If they ever crossed paths poor little Amy would whimper and Dennis would flinch, both avoiding their gaze in subservience. And it felt wonderful. He was free of two tormentors, and they would never say a word against him - after all, who would believe them? It'd already been proven he wasn't possessed, and who would believe two children's fanciful tales about how they were dangled above the water without being held by any person? Or that they were dropped from the edge of the cliff only to freeze moments before their fatal impact with the rocks and sand below? If there was no proof, there was no crime, and Tom got the lovely bonus of the other orphans outright avoiding him, rather than their usual tactic of taking his things when he wasn't looking. It'd felt good to put them in their place.

Tom rolled over and stumbled to his wardrobe, the vision affecting him more than he'd thought.

The boy had been beaten black and blue; his face, his arms, his legs were all mottled purple and blue. The black-haired boy was curled in on himself, protecting his head from any blows that may come, and lip bloodied from biting it - he didn't make a sound. He lay on a bed of withered daisies, brown and crunching beneath the child's shivering. From beneath the dead new flowers were growing, pretty ones in yellow, white and orange, they tangled themselves around the beaten boy - his arms, legs, neck, everything was tangled within the growing mass of flowers.

- _"It's all your fault, you little Freak! If you'd never been dumped here!"_ -  
Tom was powerless against the voice, he was powerless to stop violence rained upon this boy, who suffered just like him. Maybe he was special too, like him, maybe he could make things happen. Everything slowed as the black-haired boy screamed.

- _"I never wanted this!_ _It was never my fault. It was his!"_ -  
Flashes of crimson eyes, alight with malice flashed before Tom's eyes, high pitched nasal laughter echoed around the space and Tom was afraid. He fell to his knees, unable to stand as where ever it was, became unbearable. He was suffocating, his body spasmed and thrashed as invisible knives slashed through his body, he felt blood fall from his arms as his nails tore through the skin. He opened his eyes - when did he shut them?- to look for the boy, but there was nothing, there was only darkness. Darkness and pain, and hungry red eyes.

Tom's body flared in pain and he wavered. Leaning heavily against his wardrobe, Tom gathered his strength before grabbing the most comfortable - and oversized- pair of clothing from it and walking to the bathroom with his head held high as if nothing had ever happened. He didn't notice the small droplets of blood raining in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sources :  
> Daisies - www.ftd.com  
> Marigold - www.flowermeaning.com
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please comment and stuff!


	3. The Diary and a Day Out - Daffodils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom has a day away from the Orphanage and buys some books. He's also very annoyed by daffodils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing my best to keep as close to canon with certain things, like the year things happen but there's not a set year that I've found for when Tom gets his diary - only before 1943!

It was an unusual day for the brown-haired boy. Not to say he wasn't entirely unhappy about it, but it left him feeling odd none-the-less. The Cole woman had been acting oddly for the past few days - Tom, by now, was an expert on the behavioural ticks of the staff working at Wool's Orphanage, and the behaviour she'd been exhibiting for the past few days had left Tom completely baffled. It wasn't as if she'd been parading around in nothing but a rubbish sack, but well - she'd been _nice_. To _Tom_.

It wasn't just her newfound kindness, but she'd even given him leave of the grounds - provided he'd be back by dinner time, he was only eleven after all - and had handed him a generous amount of pocket money before all but pushing him out of the front door. Tom wondered if his years of refilling her sherry stores had finally affected the stern woman's mind; the money she'd handed him was only generous due to the obvious lack of funding they received - Cole had swapped to sherry from her beloved gin and tonics when the brown-eyed boy was barely old enough to know the difference. The fabricated Santa had only bestowed their continued lie upon them Christmas just passed, to the disappointment of many and the understanding of few. The dark-eyed boy would have rather had his life than any superficial toy the staff provided.

It was warm for early spring, warm enough for Tom to venture out in only a jumper and patches of bright colour caught his attention- there were daffodils sprouting from any and every section of grass Tom could see, which wasn't much. He couldn't understand why anyone would find the vibrant shade of yellow appealing, he understood their colours were to attract insects for pollination, and thus their continued survival, but they were just too bright! Even looking at them now he believed he could get a headache. In the end, he decided to pay them no mind and continue with his day - it wasn't as if he could remove them and he wasn't planning on loitering with the possibility of being hauled back by a passing Police Officer. He knew exactly where he was going.

\-----------  
Winstanley's Bookstore & Stationers was a quaint little shop an hours walk from the orphanage, and like the rest of London, was being invaded by the obnoxiously bright flower pest. His life seemed to have an abundance of flowers lately. Paying them no mind, he headed into the shop to begin his search.

The shop was, from looks alone, a treasure trove of information just at the tips of his fingers. Tom let his gaze fall upon the rows upon rows of books, the thick coating of dust indicated which books were usually of interest and which were hardly touched. Not for the first time bitterness churned in Tom's stomach - if only he hadn't been an orphan, if only he'd been wanted, he could have rows books just like these. He shook himself, there wasn't any use wishing, he was here for a book to help decipher his visions and a book like that was exactly what he'd be leaving with.

Tom was a boy of logic, and because of his love of logic, he was in no way going to buy a silly book about dreams. He wasn't a disbeliever in psychoanalysis or analysis through dream interpretation - not that he'd had much of a chance to study it since all the books at Wool's were fairytale rubbish, but since his visions weren't created by and didn't come from his subconscious mind, a book on dreams really wasn't going to help him. He could, however, find a book on the meaning of flowers and figure the answers hidden in the form of colourful plants. He had never worked on such ridiculous sounding endeavour and he didn't fully believe it'd work, but Tom really hoped his efforts bore fruit. If it didn't, he no other ideas on how to gather information on what happened while he slept, and would be left to endure them until their meaning fell into his lap.

Tom frowned, he didn't like waiting for things to be handed to him - he'd much rather reach for them himself. Living with his neglectful carers, Tom had learned to be independent, and with something as significant as his visions he'd rather find the answer than be left in the dark. There had to be a reason for the plethora of flowers that now invaded his near every sleeping and waking moment. The brown-haired boy gathered his determination and began to search.

\----------  
After a couple of hours of searching, Tom had found a book. It was pretty and covered in florals and pastel colours, and something so unlike Tom would own. But despite its deplorable appearance, it was the only book that seemed to be useful for his task. Flicking it open and began to read, the boy cursed his luck when it landed the familiar disagreeably cheery yellow as the weeds dragging themselves from the ground in every available spot.

_'The Latin name for the daffodil is Narcissus. It is believed to be named after the son of the river god from Greek mythology. Narcissus was celebrated for his beauty, but he was arrogant. The goddess Nemesis noticed this and lured him to a pool where he fell in love with his own reflection. '_

Tom snorted in disbelief, a man defeated by his own arrogance had nothing to be arrogant about in the first place. Not having the patience to continue reading through information deemed worthless to him, the boy skipped forward to the general meanings of daffodils.

"Rebirth and new beginnings..." They weren't the only meanings listed under daffodil, but they were the ones that he was drawn to. To have a new beginning in the world he lived in would be a wonderful thing - an impossible thing for Tom, but a wonderful one.

Sneering at the front cover, the brown-haired boy resolved to buy a notebook as soon as he was able, and copy the relevant information from the botanical eyesore into it. Preferably something inconspicuous, durable, easy to conceal... and something stylish to appeal to Tom's appreciation of fine things. So that was his next mission - find a nice little book, and then trudge back to hide his newest purchases. When arriving empty-handed, it would be assumed he simply used the money for lunch or some kind of treat that was rarely seen within the walls of the Orphanage.

Making his way to the counter, dark eyes landed on a display stacked with blank books. There was nothing special about it, it wasn't particularly eye-catching, but it had caught his attention anyway, he did need a notebook of some description. Slowly drifting over, he quickly found and discarded the ones he considered to be too feminine, he didn't want patterns, he didn't want bright colours. He wanted something... him. It couldn't be just any notebook, it had to be one that fits the image he was carefully constructing in his brilliant mind. He wanted something to call his, only his and to reflect himself in some way. It would be hard finding such a thing in a notebook, but he was nothing if he wasn't determined. It had to be perfect.

\----------  
Tom had nearly given up when he'd found it, his heart had soared and he'd been certain this was the one. In his hands, he held a smooth, leather-bound diary, dyed black. The leather was tipped in what he thought might be brass at the four corners, giving it some protection - a simple thing, really. Simple, but with an undeniable elegance to it. Tom was overjoyed, his dark eyes were sparkling as he gripped both books to his chest, a bounce in his step as he navigated his way back through the maze of books and towards the counter, where an elderly woman sat waiting for his custom.

\----------  
The was just over half an hour until dinner time when Tom had finally left the funny little shop. After his purchases, he'd once again gotten lost in the labyrinth of dust and pages. Winstanley's Bookstore & Stationers had been a wonderful choice on Tom's part, it had aided him in both endeavours and he was certainly returning when he next had a project that needed outside material.

Tom jogged back through the streets, anxious to make it back in time. He didn't know what had prompted the Matron's bizarre show of good-will, but Tom didn't want to question it by breaking the only condition she'd set. He moved as fast as his legs would carry him and found himself in from of the Orphanage out of breath with 10 minutes to spare. Bracing his arms on his knees, Tom took a deep breath before slipping through the gates and prepared himself for life inside the Orphanage once more.

Before the front door closed, he reached out and plucked a daffodil from a clump beginning to form next to the steps. The door shut with a resounding click behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sources:  
> The section on daffodils and their meaning - https://www.ftd.com/blog/share/daffodil-meaning-and-symbolism
> 
> Thank you for continuing to follow this work, and I hope you enjoy!


	4. Mr Dunderbore - Poppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom reflects on his parents, and has a surprising(ly dressed) visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> I've recently had a lot of trouble with Wi-Fi, hence a bit longer since I last updated but I'm back again, and so is my Wi-Fi! 
> 
> I've tried to keep as close to canon for this chapter, with some social understanding of the time. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It wasn't until the beginning of July that Mrs Coles motives came to light. It was a Sunday morning, just after breakfast and Tom www secluded in his room like his typical day, when not attending to Mrs Coles newly assigned chores list. 

The devious woman had devised a cunning plan- the more work around the orphanage the orphans did, the less it'd cost her to hire the regular cleaning firm she used to keep the place clean and fresh in case of hopeful adopters. It cuts costs and burnt out some of the energy the unruly urchins had without her worrying what mischief they'd be getting up to the moment her back was turned. Tom didn't understand why it'd taken her so long to work this out, then again, he'd discovered over the years that it took people longer- especially his age group- to come to the same conclusions he did. It was frustrating and yet another thing that set him apart from the others. When it came to intelligence, he was simply better.

Tom had occupied himself inside his wardrobe. It was a childish thing to do but it had been so long since he'd sat here that he'd missed it. The dark-haired boy would often sit inside his wardrobe as a younger child- he believed that if he sat there, alone in the dark, no one could touch him. Not the fists trying yo beat him or the hands trying to drag him out every Sunday morning to the local church. The wardrobe was his sanctuary as he grew, but sitting here now he felt nothing short of ridiculous. Tom didn't consider himself to be a nostalgic child, and as such, he wasn't Sat in the wardrobe for the sake of a few misguided ideas he'd once clung to. 

Balanced on his bare knees was a dented little tin box. The lid was closed, but Tom didn't need to open it yo know its contents.   
A bookmark decorated with poppies, made of fragile card and that was torn on the bottom left edge. He'd taken that over a year ago from a tall, brown-haired girl who tried to steal his thin blanket. It was a souvenir from the War, a great War that united the countries together in blood and battle and death. A War Tom hadn't been alive to see.  
A glass marble from Dennis before their visit to the caves from when he pushed Tom into a nettle patch; the stings had been agonising and the other boy had laughed - until the next morning when Toms wounds had disappeared and Dennis found his floor with a new carpet of stinging leaves.   
The conker had belonged to a boy who left earlier that year, being too old to live within the walls of Wools anymore.   
There was various other bits and pieces, such as folded labels from the bottles of liquor hed tampered with, or buttons he'd taken from minor annoyances. 

At the very bottom of the tin box lay a small square of fabric, a handkerchief, taken from his file in Mrs Coles office - a keepsake from his mother they hadn't allowed him to have, he took it anyway. In this sense, he admitted he truly was a child - the deep longing for the woman who birthed him but had been too weak to live. But in others, he was more an adult that those taking care of him, his decisions being made with reason rather than emotion. Fingering the handkerchief, Tom allowed himself a rare moment of grief for the feeble woman who gave him life, and the questions he'd buried within himself tore themselves free. 

Why did she die? Why was she too weak to live for him, her son? Did these strange things happen to her too? The dark-eyed boy clenched his fists into his hair, the handkerchief still grasped tightly. What of his father, was he dead too? Had he been the one with his strangeness? Or was the man who sired him alive? Tom didn't know. He didn't know the answer to any of these questions and that scared the brown-haired boy, knowledge he couldn't obtain was knowledge to be feared. It was part of the reason he'd taught himself as a young child - that and no one else was inclined to, the less he knew the more vulnerable he was to others. Tom couldn't afford to be vulnerable.

The dark-haired boy curled himself around the little tin box and imagined his sanctuary for the first time in years.

\----

A few hours later found Tom sat on his bed. The staff and children had returned from church and were doing their respective jobs - children more subdued after being sat still in a quiet, oppressing atmosphere, but still energetic enough to cause trouble, and the adults trying to avoid that trouble. 

Tom didn't care what they did, as long as they left him alone. He was glad that Mrs Cole stopped insisting on his presence in church, he wasn't religious and after the incident with his attempted exorcism last year, they were lucky he hadn't done something drastic- Cole and the Priest both. He had never feared in such a way before, and vowed never to again. 

In his hands Tom gripped his book of flowers; he hadn't needed it to recognise what the poppies on the bookmark had meant- he'd learnt about the War, and how poppies had spread across the fields stained with blood. Remembrance. He'd slotted the bookmark between the last pages he'd read and quietly shut the book, fingering the edges of the pages in thought. 

It'd been two weeks since his last vivid vision, but it'd stuck in his mind and hadn't left him alone since he'd seen it. Him. The Snake Man. Tom was a friend of serpents, he spoke to them and they spoke back, but the creature he'd seen in his visions was no friend to anyone. It was a monster, and it was linked to Harry- he hadn't seen the child look so scared before, Tom had seen the green-eyed boy tremble in the dark, or flinch away from his aunt, but never had he seen the boy show such open fear. Tom had hated it, and had hated that he still saw it. He'd wanted to pull the other boy from that world where he feared and felt pain to his, where he wouldn't live the grandest life but he'd be free of that monster and his neglectful, spiteful family. He'd have warmth, food and shelter. He'd have s friend in Tom, if he didn't shun him like the others had, and the both of them could be happy.

The noise from the other children began to quieten, rousing Tom from his wistful thoughts and confusing him as to what could have caught their fickle attentions. The silence swept through the halls of Wool's and its inhabitants held their breath; the static in the air raised the small hairs on Tom's arms and a deep anxiety pulled at the centre of Tom's chest. It was like the silence before the storm and the dark-eyed boy couldn't shake the feeling that he was at the heart of it as it closed in. 

Footsteps echoing through the halls came to a stop outside his door and Tom held his breath. A timid knock at the door confirmed the boy's suspicions as Mrs Cole's voice sounded from the other side, the door creaked open as she ushered both herself and another person inside.

"Tom? You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton--sorry, Dunderbore. He's come to tell you--well, I'll let him do it." 

The man, Dunderbore, was odd looking, to say the least. Long auburn hair and a purple suit - Tom had never seen anything like it, at least no one respectable had been dressed in such a disarray. Clearly this man was mad, or at least had something wrong with his eyes to even consider wearing such an eyesore. He looked old, not so old as many a man he'd seen walk with canes, but certainly older than Mrs Cole, and even the wretched reverend at church. 

Dunderbore, after assessing Tom under his weighted gaze, smiled genially and stepped forward, more into the room, Tom's space, and held out his hand.

"How do you do, Tom?"  
The boy watched him wearily, glancing between the two adults that lurked in his private space, before reaching out. He shook the man's hand and tried to sit still as every instinct he had began to scream that this was a man to be wary of. This wasn't a man he could charm. And Tom was going to have to be very careful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Sources:  
> Poppy - www.flowermeaning.com/pop
> 
> Dialogue - Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Chapter 13


	5. The First Diary Entry - Lavender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom thinks on his meeting with Dumbledore and writes the first entry his diary

_'I don't understand why you're supposed to write "Dear Diary" when I'm only recording my day into a book. It' simply a book, it has no consciousness and it certainly can't answer back, so why are we supposed to address our writing to it when writing in it? Is it to honour the books' sacrifice to the record of our inane daily lives, and the sickening scribbles of love-sick girls, or is it simply a tradition lost to time, a reassurance that "someone" is listening to you and validating your existence? Well, tradition or no, there is no way I'm to begin my recordings with "Dear" anything, I find it ridiculous._

_Now that I have established there shall no be no "Dears" or "Diaries", I shall move on to what I intended on writing about. Today I had a visitor, I was surprised to see it wasn't the Priest trying to coerce me into seeing the "error of my ways" and "relinquish the grasp of sin upon me", but it wasn't him. Instead, it was, who I thought to be a peculiar man, red hair and a purple suit - really, who would wear such an eyesore after the war? - and named Dunderbore by Cole, but he is anything but boring. In actuality, he is named Dumbledore and while I have reasons to distrust him, the man brought me the most miraculous news. I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, am a Wizard. It's no jest, I'd thought so when he'd said such an impossible thing but he'd proved himself sincere by setting alight my wardrobe and revealing my stash of items to Cole._  
_In my excitement, I was foolish and told him about my speaking to snakes - he recoiled and gave me an intense stare, it seems such talent is considered weird amongst Wizards and Muggles alike, Muggles being those without magic. There are also things called "Squibs"? I do not know how these are different from Muggles but they too have no magic._

_However, all of this just proves my suspicions, I am different from those who reside in this place. I'm too different for them to even comprehend and I can do what they can't. I think it wouldn't be too far a stretch to even say that I m superior; what can they do but beat me with their fists when saturated with false confidence? I can do so much more than that, and I will if they ever raise their fists to me again._

_Professor Dumbledore, for he is, in fact, a teacher of Wizardry, informed me that upon September 1st I will be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where I will learn to use Magic - that's what I have, Magic- and complete my Magical education. Until then, I must find my way to a place called "Diagon Alley" to collect my schooling supplies - but looking at the list Professor Dumbledore kindly supplied me with, I'm left wondering whether this is a prank after all. What on God's Earth is a Bezoar? Do I actually have to obtain a cauldron? And if this Wizarding World is to be kept a secret from the Muggle one, why must I remain here in the orphanage, and how does he expect me to hide a cauldron?_  
_In any case, I must find an establishment called "The Leaky Cauldron" and from there continue on to "Diagon Alley"._

_I will write upon my success._  
_T.M.Riddle_  
_July 2nd 1938'_

 

Tom sighed as he tenderly placed the book upon his rickety bed next to him, and leant back as he stretched out his body after being hunched over the book for so long. After the older Wizard's display of Magic earlier, the book of flowers and black diary were the only objects of value he possessed, or at least valuable to him. The dark-haired boy scowled to himself, this Wizard was definitely someone he wouldn't be able to sway, with either his logic or his ability- Magic and if all Wizards were as he was, then Tom would be at the very bottom of his year-group. 

The dark-eyed child looked towards a small pouch left lying upon the ramshackle bedside table, an insult to Tom's pride but his lifeline for his new life in the Wizarding World. It was a pouch of money, the kind Tom had never seen - Knuts, he said were the bronze ones, Sickles, the silver and Galleons were the gold.  
Once he got to Diagon Alley, he'd need to conserve as much money as he could - if he saved where he could, he may just be able to manage a book or two on Wizarding etiquette, and societal rules, Tom was a smart child, he knew that if he received the wrong kind of attention from the wrong people, it could spell disaster. He'd already grown up disastrously, he didn't want his new life to start the same way.

Tom frowned as his thoughts returned to the older Wizard, surely he'd been smart enough to investigate the Muggles before venturing out to deliver the news to Tom that he was, in fact, a Wizard. Surely that was something mandatory if the Wizarding World was to be kept secret and safe from the non-magical beings? Anything less would mean negligence and could spell the exposure of Magic to their Magicless neighbours, so why then had the Professor arrived at Wool's in such a distasteful outfit? The dark-haired boy's nose scrunched in remembrance of the offending attire, not only that, but the man had smelt of lavender. A purple flower and a purple suit, Tom mused. A purple flower of summer, a flower of mistrust. But was it to mean Tom's wariness and lack of trust in the Professor, or that the Professor lacked trust in him?

 

A loud knock to his door roused the boy from his darkening thoughts, and he looked up to find Mrs Cole's face staring back at him.

"So, you'll be going to that school then, Hogwash?" Tom had to admit that while "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" was a ridiculous name, and that even the abbreviated "Hogwarts" for the sake of Muggles was absurd, but he was confused how the woman could even manage to get it wrong.

"Hogwarts, yes." He replied curtly.  
"Right. Hogwarts..." She floundered, standing awkwardly in the doorway.  
"I'll have to return for the Summers. They can't house me," Tom reminded her - he had to, lest she forgets. He'd never understood how such a sharp-minded woman could be so forgetful.  
"Yes, of course. Your room will be here." She gave him a sharp look, raking her eyes over him as if trying to assure herself that he was Tom, the same Tom she'd watch grow. As if coming to that conclusion, she nodded before turning to leave, throwing an uncaring "Lights out" behind her, switching off the light and shutting the door with a thud.

The child remained sat upon his bed for a few moments, contemplating the Matron's strange behaviour, before moving his diary to rest beside the pouch filled with money and stripping down to his underclothes for bed. While it was only the beginning of July, June had been far warmer than previous years in his memory, leaving the new month to be scorching. Tom didn't mind this so much, while he hated how sweaty he'd become in his shirt and vest, he enjoyed the warmth- living here at Wool's Orphanage meant that sometimes it felt like he'd never feel warmth again, especially at winter. Tom settled himself in bed, watching the sky out his window with a small smile - now was warmth, and sunlight, and when winter arrived for Wool's, he'd be warm and happy elsewhere.

\----------------  
It was dark.  
There was nothing but darkness and him.  
He couldn't feel anything, he couldn't say anything. He was alone and it was dark.  
It was cramped, he knew it was. He felt cramped, and alone in the dark.  
He was sacred - No.  
He was Tom. Tom didn't get scared. Tom wouldn't get scared, not of the dark. The dark was safe and the dark was kind, while all the light brought was being seen, being hurt. He was a freak, freaks were punished- deserved to be punished.  
He'd been punished.  
He was hurt.  
He was bleeding-

  
Tom wasn't bleeding, he was still in his bed within the walls of Wool's Orphanage. He watched as the poor child wrapped his wounds in scraps of dirtied cloth, torn from the thread-bare matrice he slouched upon. He watched the child weep at the unfairness of his world, and he watched as the child's green eyes grew dim with the loss of his innocence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lavender - The Language of Flowers, A Miscellany by Mandy Kirkby
> 
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Sources for meanings:  
> Butterfly Weed: https://gardenerdy.com/list-of-flowers-their-meanings  
> White Calla Lily: https://www.ftd.com/blog/share/calla-lily-meaning-and-symbolism
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please comment!


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